


There are days

by ParadiseFalls03



Series: One for sorrow, two for joy [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A bit sad, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, M/M, POV First Person, but a bit hopeful too I think, hair cutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27857838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadiseFalls03/pseuds/ParadiseFalls03
Summary: There are days when I am a stranger in my own skin. And it prickles, it itches. It hurts.
Relationships: Harry Potter/George Weasley
Series: One for sorrow, two for joy [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554217
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	There are days

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say, folks, I just love them together. Also, I need my monthly dose of depressing writing. Hope you’ll enjoy and let me know what you think.

There are days when I am a stranger in my own skin. And it prickles, it itches. It hurts. 

I stare at my reflection without blinking until it blurs, until it bleeds. Until it means nothing. 

Until it means everything. And it’s not you. But it’s not me, either. 

I have that birthmark where you had freckles, just under my right eye. It looks like a speckle of dirt and I try scratching it away.

It doesn’t go. Of course it doesn’t. It’s not you, it’s not freckles. It’s dirt.

Identical. It means nothing. It’s still not you.

It’s me, alone.

There are days when I stare at my reflection until it blurs and it blurs and it blurs. My face gets wet without my permission and I don’t know why I am looking.

But I still do.

It’s all I can do, looking. Because if I talk I know the silence would kill me.

There are days when I still smile. I catch myself before it reaches my eyes and it dies on my lips like a secret. And I know you’d be disappointed.

You used to laugh. Grin. Big, teeth showing and crinkles around your eyes that I joked would age your face years before mine.

You rarely just smiled. Not as much as me, anyways.

So it’s okay if I still do. If it never reaches my eyes, that’s okay too. 

There are days when I wish I could push it further, and you would tell me to “let it, you idiot!”

You’d be disappointed, and I am sorry.

But you don’t know what it means. 

You are not the one here, trying to do this. Without me.

Probably you’d do it better, though.

You died with a laugh on your lips. Big, teeth showing and crinkles around your eyes.

All i have left in me are smiles that taste of tears. My face is often wet and you are not here to tell my eyes to laugh instead.

There are days in which you have left me, you fucking bastard.  
There aren’t any more in which you haven’t.

I ask Harry how am I supposed to cope and he tells me bluntly that some days you can’t.

I push him against the wall and he looks at me, startled. When he asks if I am doing this for the wrong reasons I look back at him and remember there were days when you would tell me to grow some balls. 

I search his eyes for permission. 

He is so honest. 

I savour the truth on his lips and lick it back into his mouth “No. I’m doing it because I want to. I wanted to for a while, actually”.

I remember there were days when you would catch me staring at his lips and I would shrug and say “I just like what comes out of them. His honesty, it’s hot.”

And you would laugh your toothy laugh and say “I bet it’d taste just as hot, that truth”. 

It tastes like my eyes could learn to laugh again. Now I know, and it’s not hot.

It’s so much better.

There are days when my reflection gets too much.  
So i take a pair of scissors to our curls, the ones that are so us. So red. Must be a Weasley. Must be Fred. Must be George.

And I snap, i cut. With no direction, blades catching on skin as much as hair until they are all over the floor and the only red it’s the blood trailing down my hands. 

My face is wet, but I was expecting it. And it blurs, it blurs. It hurts.

Then Harry’s hands are on my shoulders, delicate like birds. Like kisses. His fingers ghosts at the nape of my neck. A soft towel wipes away my blood, my tears. My pain.

I barely register the quiet buzzing of Harry’s muggle trimmer on my scalp. My bare shoulders are covered in wayward fuzz, and it prickles, it itches. It doesn’t hurt.

“All done” Harry smiles, soft bird hands stroking my shaved head. “It suits you”.

I push him against the sink, and that seems my modus operandi as of lately. I push and he gives. When I try to apologise he shushes me with his mouth and I think he understands. 

I think it’s love.

I think you would be proud.

When I finally come up for air I catch my reflection on the mirror.

Harry is right, it suits me. And it’s not blurry, it doesn’t bleed. It doesn’t hurt.

For the first time in months, I see myself.

And it’s not bad. It’s not bad at all.


End file.
